


No Dice

by bazsucks



Category: IT (2017) RPF, IT - Stephen King, it 2019 - Fandom
Genre: Adults, Confessions, Crushes, Drunken Confessions, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Fluff, I needed to get this out of my brain as soon as possible, M/M, Pining, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Tattooed Eddie Kaspbrak, The Town Inn, extremely slight angst if you squint, like seriously you won't notice it just adds a little spice, writin reddie? it aint much but it's honest work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 02:50:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazsucks/pseuds/bazsucks
Summary: “You’re pretty.”“What?”“You always were.”_____________________Alternatively: There is a serious lacking of two types of fanfiction in this fanbase: 1. Fanfictions taking place in the Town Inn, and 2. Eddie with James Ransone's tattoos. Thank you.





	No Dice

**Author's Note:**

> if you haven't seen james ransone's tattoos, i seriously implore you to go search that shit up (or find it on twitter) because it will melt your eyeballs out of your skull and probably improve this fanfiction experience by a thousand percent. 
> 
> this is also dedicated to edward-tozier on tumblr who made some gorgeous art of eddie with james' tattoos that 100% inspired me to think further about tattooed eddie, tysm for the wonderful creation and inspo! 
> 
> thank you.

Sea salt and mint. Those were the flavours in Richie’s mouth when he first stepped foot back into dusty, decaying, Derry – Mint Breez-Y, the newest hippie-wippie flavor of his manager’s niece’s whatever’s start-up company, _Frezh,_ self-proclaimed experts in homemade artisanal breath mints and pocket candy. The mints rattled in his pocket, from their recycled aluminum tin.

Fucking L.A.

The Town Inn hadn’t been a place they’d ever visited as kids. Tall, grey and brick walls. An aura of adulthood surrounding it, metaphysically speaking. _No little annoying run-arounds, _it practically spoke to Richie back then. There used to be this snooty doorman outside who’d always given them dirty looks when they walked by. Richie used to impersonate him. He never did speak to them, but he was always British in Richie’s take on him, and he was always _down right appalled, I say. _

Richie’s boots were dirty, one of his socks is slipping down with every step he takes, and his clothes laid heavy on his shoulders, but the biggest concern right now was the strain of the tough cloth digging through his soft, wimpy, some would say, palms: carrying his bags upstairs. Thankfully, he got an opportunity to stop in his steps and readjust his grip.

“That’s one hell of a ride, Rich.”

Ben. Hell of a lot taller. More square. He’s all angular shapes now. Hell of a lot more confident, it seems. Hell of a lot… a lot. Of everything holy and good. He’s so much of.. wow.

“Thanks, I don’t know much about cars but she.. rides nice.”

He doesn’t give a shit if it rides nice. He just needs a way to beat L.A traffic. Ben nods, though, so Richie’s probably done a pretty good attempt to fit into the ‘car guys’ vernacular.Ben looks to the side. The bar. The conversation’s over, so Richie gets his lard ass up the remaining few stairs and looks around. There’s only what.. eight rooms? Ten, tops. Richie is in 004. He doesn’t let himself linger on the thought of _why put two zeros in front of the actual number as if there’s anywhere near a hundred rooms in this place? What kind of – _

Because he hears a noise. A slow creak, like a step, gingerly being taken on old floorboards. It leaves his blood cold. Suddenly, he’s back in Neibolt, he’s fourteen, there’s dust and shit everywhere, decaying walls. Grey vision. Yelling, frantic, weak fists pounding, Bill screaming his name in a desperate shrill voice, and –

The door opens next to him. Eddie walks out of room 003, and looks twice as surprised as Richie does. He blinks. Eddie. He’s all soft edges now, from what’s visible. Soft, rounded features. The same doe eyes, the bags under them familiar and deep, etched into his face like they’ve always been. His mouth is turned downwards naturally. Richie can’t remember if it was always like that.

“Hey, man.”

It’s too familiar, his voice, his face, yet so not at all whatsoever familiar, his words. Where’s the fuck you? Where’s the push and shove? Where’s the _fuck you, asshole_, where’s the ignoring each other’s quiet glances and pretending you aren’t looking their way?

“You need help carrying those, bird legs?”

Richie snaps out of it, and Eddie’s already grabbing his duffel bag from out of his hand. Eddie’s surprisingly fast, or Richie’s surprisingly entranced, because it really only feels like a second. Just a whiff, no actual physical contact and yet Richie burns.

“Uh,” He starts, steady as ever. He’s suddenly very self aware of what he looks like. He hasn’t shaved. The only reason is haircut is halfway decent is because there’s no way they’d let him on stage if it wasn’t – his clothes are, well, they’re just his clothes. Nothing horrible.. but nothing fantastic either. “I’m in room double-o-four.”

If Eddie thought Richie needed confirmation that he’d understood the information given, he sure doesn’t show it, he just marches on to the next door, and waits for.. well, he’s waiting for Richie.

_This is so weird. _Richie thinks when the key turns in the hotel room door. _I’m in the Hotel Inn with Eddie Kaspbrak._

Soft edges Eddie Kaspbrak. Doesn’t call him an asshole anymore Eddie Kaspbrak. Helping him carry his bag Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Hey, you’ve got a bigger window than me!” He hears from behind him, when he steps inside. The room isn’t necessarily bad, or awful, just slightly abandoned. He’s used to a tour bus, though, so the pleasures of an actual room are not forgotten by Mr. Tozier.

“_All the better for me to spy on you with_,” Richie snares in his creepiest old grandma voice, lifting the bedsheet cautiously as he does so.

He hears a short little laugh from Eddie, and when he turns to look at him, he’s put his hands on his sides. He looks good. Like himself but.. more. Older. But not wiser. Just.. experienced. Worn in. Comfortable in his own skin.

_Finally, you are, aren't you? _Richie allows himself to think.

“No, but seriously,” He continues, zipping open his duffel bag. “If I know fuckshow Derry well enough, me having the bigger window just means I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and my window will be splattered with blood, and eggs, and sewer water, and some fuck-all clown will be standing outside it waving a balloon animal while I take my morning shower,” his word vomit flows effortlessly. He’s not even sure what he said.

“If you’re gonna take your morning shower in your bedroom, I think you have bigger problems than some fuck-all clown and some eggs,” Eddie quips back. See now that, is familiar. Sure he didn’t call Richie an idiot who should go die, but it’s close enough to be comforting. Literally.

Richie smiles, and looks out the window.

They both hear a shout from downstairs. It’s Beverly, telling everyone to come down, because they have to discuss something. Or whatever.

Richie turns and walks to the door, and Eddie follows.

“Seriously, Rich, don’t shower here. The amount of accidents that happen in motel room bathrooms due to absent minded idiots like you is actually _disgusting.”_

____________________________________________________

Richie isn’t drunk. He’s not. But Eddie is gorgeous. Eddie is soft edges, and fast speaking. Eddie is hands being raised for dramatic flair, Eddie is statistics that fly off the top of his head and Eddie..

Well, Eddie is kicking off his shoes in the hotel lobby.

The Orient was another one of those no-kids-aura-places in Derry, though they never did see any snooty waiters or doormen while they were there, around twenty minutes ago or so. It didn’t exist here when they were kids, obviously. Richie’s pretty sure it used to be a parking lot, with a bit of forest behind it. That whole area’s about to be turned into a mall. Ben and Richie had a lengthy and rich conversation on the fascination over the fact that Derry has doubled in size since they were kids.

And by fascination, that is of course Ben’s fascination being implied, and rich, which is of course fancy people talk for _a lot of talking is about to happen._

And by gorgeous, Richie means gorgeous. He’s not sure when, and he’s not sure how, but during that dinner, just that simple, peaceful dinner (minus the obvious, the ending) Richie remembered a fact. A fact that used to weigh him down every single goddamn day in this hellhole of a town. A fact that lingered, a fact that could never be undone. Tormented him, ate at him, mocked him, spat him in the face.

A fact that had him laying in his bed at night, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and so on, thinking about kisses. Tossing, and turning. Kisses, and soft edges, and hands, and nicknames.

Richie is in fucking love with Eddie Kaspbrak.

So yeah, sue him if the wine flowed a bit too freely. Sue him if the sake tasted as good the first time round as it did the fifth. Sue him if he wasn’t slinging his arm around Eddie’s shoulder right now, and saying, “_god, damn, Eds, I missed you_,” into his ear, not slowly, but grumbly. In a way his voice never did until he hit around thirty. Strange happenings, the human body.

They’re sitting in the hotel bar, in the old, stuffy couch. Ben is telling a story about Japan, and Beverly is listening intensely from behind the bar. Mike is running a hand over his eyebrows.

Richie doesn’t care where Bill is right now. Out of sight, out of mind.

But more importantly, Eddie, _on my arm, on my fucking arm! _

Eddie laughs, and his whole torso shakes along with it. That’s new too. The whole night Richie’s been observing Eddie, seeing what he does that’s familiar, and what he does now, that age has brought to him. When he laughs, it’s heartily, his shoulders shake. His eyes squint. He gets tiny crows feet. He’s beautiful. They’re practically lying up against each other, Eddie, laying against Richie with his arm still slung around his shoulder. He probably didn’t hear him. About the missing him part. If he did hear, he didn’t respond.

Suddenly, music. A blast of jazz. It’s like the room gets warmer. Not in temperature, (that’s not possible, because Richie is already boiling,) but in color. Orange, instead of blue. Physically warmer. More friendly. Cozier. Happier. Beverly whoos, and Bill laughs, and Richie closes his eyes, and lets himself shake along with Eddie.

_____________________________________________________________

Richie is still boiling when he’s slipping his jacket off, two in the morning, probably, outside his room’s door. He put his key in the pocket of his flannel shirt which is, in fact, under said jacket, and while he’s not drunk enough to just start stripping off _outside_ his room, he gets pretty damn close, and is only stopped by a voice behind him.

“Jesus, Rich, so blind _yuh_, _you_ can’t even see _yuh_, _yourself_ droppin’ your keys?” Bill says, _pathetically_, as he bends down to pick up those damn stupid keys, and plugs the golden, rustier one into the keyhole, turning it. He’s half whispering. Bev, Ben and Eddie went to bed an hour or so ago. Richie’s been counting minutes.

“I can ‘urn my own damn key, William,” Richie grunts. That’s another thing that happens after a few decades of being alive. You grunt. Naturally. It’s repulsive.

“_Suh, suh_, sure you can, bud.” Bill claps a hand forcibly into Richie’s shoulder, and Richie isn’t proud to admit he almost loses balance. Well, he does actually lose his balance, but only for a second. Or two. Bill surely doesn’t notice.

He delivers another clap, softer, and mumbles something about getting a good night’s rest, before heading away, probably to sleep. Out of sight, out of mind.

The door opens when he turns the handle. There’s nothing in the window, but he still startles by the vast darkness of it, in contrast to the grey walls in the room. It’s ridiculous. He’s not afraid of the dark. He isn’t. It’s hard to not be terrified of everything when everything you’ve ever feared gathers itself into a union in one town. There should be a workers union for all the monsters under his metaphorical bed. They deserve a higher salary.

“Cuz they work so fuckin’ hard, anyway,” He grumbles. “They oughta go on-a fuckin’ strike.” The flannel shirt hits the floor with a soft thud. Richie doesn’t get scared. The t-shirt joins it a few seconds after.

Suddenly, the cold air against his back is in a weird way welcome, because it really has been a warm night, but in a way, it’s terrifying. In a weird way, everything is terrifying right now. He looks around, turning around on his feet, sucking in a breath he can’t catch. It’s like a vacuum has emptied out the room for all that is cozy and well.

It’s cold. The door is open. He remembers. _Not Scary At All. _ The window is dark. There are no curtains. Why are there no curtains?

He hasn’t even closed the door. _Scary. _

What if someone’s out in the en-suite? Waiting to jump out and stab him, and then run out the door? _Very Very Scary._

What if _It_ –

“Jesus Christ, Richie, are you fuckin' tap-dancing in here or somethin’?!”

He hears from behind him, and whips around. He’s pale as a ghost as he looks back at Eddie, who looks nothing like a ghost. Unless ghosts look slightly tired and very annoyed and kind of sound like pissed off sarcastic New Yorkers.

“Uh,” Richie’s not sure what to say. The vacuum releases. He breathes, and moves his feet. A loud floorboard creaks windily under his weight. _Oh. _

“S-sorry.” He sucks a breath in through his nose, and feels his chest burn hot. Eddie’s shirtless. Eddie’s very shirtless. Richie is also shirtless, but that is the least of his worries right now, because Eddie is _shirtless, _and Eddie _has fucking tattoos. _

“Rich,” Eddie says cautiously, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. He kind of looks like he’s approaching a deer he just hit on an empty town road. “Are you alright? Did anything – did you,”

“I didn’t see _It,” _ Richie finishes, knowingly. “I guess just, being back here.. y'know,”

And he does. Eddie always knows. He moves to sit on the bed. It creaks. Everything in his shithole creaks. _Derry creaks_.

Eddie sits down next to him. Richie looks at him.

And then slowly..

Slowly.. a laugh. It builds. Like a well, rising, just a lowly little snicker, until Richie’s squinting his eyes, and his stomach is bubbling with laughter. Eddie’s confused as ever.

“What? What’s so funny, dickwad, here I was thinking you were really scared and-“ Eddie’s brow is furrowed, and his mouth does that little curled thing it does when he gets mad, and Richie howls.

“No fucking dice!” He practically screams. His voice is shrill. Okay, maybe round five of the sake was a little too much of what he couldn’t chew. Sue him.

“What?”

“No dice!” Richie sticks a finger right into Eddie’s chest, right in the middle, where cursive letters read out _No Dice. _It’s blurry, blown out. It looks like a fucking prison tat, and Richie loves it. Next to it, on either side, are two blacked out stars. Big, too. Sloppily drawn. Just as well-worn as the words. There’s a few more, but they aren’t as funny as _no dice. _

They’re gorgeous, though. Richie doesn’t say that, but he stops laughing.

“Ha, ha, very funny, asshole.”

There’s always this thing that happens when someone laughs really loudly for a really long time. When they stop, it’s like something bigger than just a laugh has stopped. It’s like the entire mood of the room changes. It settles. It settles between them, the air lays thick. Their eyes meet.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why, ‘No Dice’?”

There’s a pause. Eddie closes his eyes, and then he lays down. Just like that. His feet are still hitting the floor, but he’s laying now. He’s wearing flannel pyjama bottoms. Richie watches, as the muscles under his skin move with his body. It’s only really now that he realizes how quiet the room is. He can hear Eddie breathing. Eddie’s eyes are still closed.

“Is it..” He starts. His eyes open. “Is it cliché if I say it’s too complicated to explain?”

“Yes.” Richie answers. It’s not a joke, it’s not funny, it’s just an answer. He never has to think of a funny thing to say with Eddie. Because he smiles, and scoffs.

“I know.” He closes his eyes again.

Richie feels weird, sitting, while someone (not just someone, Eddie Kaspbrak) is laying next to him, (shirtless, Eddie Kaspbrak) so he decides to gingerly lay down too, being extremely careful not to touch Eddie in anyway whatsoever. He’s too sober now.

The bedsheets are rough, and they scratch, but the sensation is welcome, and Richie cranks his neck to side, producing a few satisfying _crrrk _noises.

“They’re- they’re pretty.” He croaks, eyes roaming around Eddie’s chest. He’s got a few adorning his shoulders. None of them are expertly made, but they suit him. He could never imagine the Eddie he knew with tattoos. But this one..

They _adorn_ this Eddie. He adores this Eddie.

This Eddie sniffles a little laugh.

Richie closes his eyes. There’s so much coming back. The last day and a half has been insane, just nonstop him, remembering, and Eddie, being there. Speaking. Breathing. Being as great as he always was. Laying next to him, laying, in his arms, laughing, vibrating with happiness. Richie screws his eyes as shut as he possibly can.

Years of love have come back to punch him in the face, pull him by the hair and demand his heart. And he’s been so willing. Yearning.

“I’m okay, you know, you don’t have to baby me anymore,” He struggles to get out, because this is _too _fucking much. Eddie is too fucking much, laying next to him, laughing, like a drunk coked up hooker next to him, shirtless, fucking tattooed, having secrets, being there for Richie in his time of need, it’s all too fucking much and the bedsheet is scratching his back, and he can feel the heat radiating off of Eddie, and if he doesn’t kiss him right now he might explode, effectively killing Pennywise and all of Derry in the process –

“You’re pretty.”

…

“What?”

“You always were.”

Eddie’s turned to lay on his side now. The room is so quiet. Richie could count his eyelashes, if he wanted to. If he had the time. He would.

“What?”

“The pretty one. You were always the pretty one. When the Inspector Gadget multiplier glasses came off, anyway.” Eddie smiles, and laughs shortly. “Late high school too, you were such a heartthrob.”

Eddie laughs louder this time, probably at Richie’s stunned silence. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“You..” Richie starts. It’s pathetic, really. This _daze_ he’s in. It’s very simple: he literally can’t believe he’s alive right now. “You were the pretty one. I was the funny one.”

Eddie scoffs, and looks up at the ceiling. “Hah, dude, if I looked like you in high school – fuck, man, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to _be _you or if I want-“

Richie never gets to figure out the end of that sentence, not for the rest of his days on this Earth, but it’s okay because in exchange for it;

He kisses him. He kisses him so hard, he feels Eddie’s head get pushed into the mattress. He kisses him, and lifts himself up by the elbow, to get leverage. He kisses him, and Eddie hums into his mouth, just a short little noise, and Richie’s _pathetic_, he’s really truly disgusting, because he practically _sobs_ into the kiss, years of devastation into one horrible yet passionate noise, pulls back, and then dives right back in. Eddie is so soft, and Richie might cry. 

Eddie’s hand is in his hair, pulling at it, towards him, and Richie’s so ready to just _go_, just let him direct wherever his head may go – he doesn’t _care_ anymore. It’s been so long, and the love is so strong, and Richie could die right now for all he cares. The air is boiling. His skin burns. Eddie is making a long _mmm, mmh, _noise into their kiss which has well developed into a proper snog by now, and Richie might as well be floating off into space. Eddie pulls back.

“Holy shit, holy shit, Richie, If you _knew_-“

Richie knows. Richie knows the yearning. Richie knows the fantasies. Richie knows all of it, and for the first night in so many years, he also _remembers _it all. But he doesn’t see the relief in Eddie’s eyes, matching his.

“Oh my god, _Eddie_,” He lays back down on his side, because Eddie’s sitting up, and Richie’s terrified, eyes wide. “I’m so, so, sorry, Jesus Christ, I –“

“Richie, holy fuck, you’re so stupid,” is all Richie hears before his entire head is yanked up into another brutal kiss, (he really should get a haircut, this might be a hazard), their teeth don’t necessarily clank together, but Richie does feel his brain rattle around in his head like a fucking ping pong ball as he realizes that Eddie Kaspbrak is actually fucking _kissing_ him. Happily. Willingly. Gladly.

Richie does something he’s never let himself do, ever. He touches. He touches the _man_ in front of him. Aggressively, even. He runs a flat palm down the front of Eddie’s chest, and all the way down to his stomach. He runs it along his subtle but dark happy trail and he fucking _enjoys it. _Eddie is smooth, and gorgeous, and inked, and confident, and he’s all the things he fell in love with back then but _more. _Worn in. Comfortable, finally.

________________________________________________

“You should get two right here.” Richie says lowly, right into the space between their mouths. His hands are on Eddie’s hips, right in the dip of the hip bone, which just so happens to be on Richie’s lap currently. He climbed on top of him around eighty kisses ago. Not that Richie’s counting.

“What would you suggest I get there, then, smartass?” Eddie whispers back. He had the decency to care about the people sleeping in the next room over. Richie was too busy being over the fucking moon that Eddie _wasn’t _sleeping in the vacant room next to them currently.

Eddie moved down to kiss Richie’s neck, and Richie closed his eyes. It was too late to think. Sure, he’s sober, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s three in the morning and he’s like, idunno, fucking forty years old, and desires sleep every twenty minutes like an overfed zoo monkey, and the concept of ‘what should Eddie Kaspbrak get tattooed’ isn’t exactly high on his list of concerns right now, he still thinks about it.

Not very hard, though.

“Get like,” He runs his thumb over one hip, “_Property Of –“_

“I’m gonna stop you _right_ there.” Eddie interrupts, and runs a hand over Richie’s forehead, swiping some hair away. Richie opens his eyes and watches the love of his life, raising both eyebrows, and smiles.

“No?”

“No.” Eddie challenges. Richie admits defeat immediately.

Like he always has. Like he always will.

**Author's Note:**

> please implore me to write more tattooed eddie and i will. i am whipped. much like richie. comments are so appreciated ! thank you <3


End file.
